


These Currents

by red_crate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Invasion of Privacy, POV Peter Hale, Pack Feels, Past Abortion, Possessive Behavior, Post Mpreg, Scent Marking, Secrets, Trope Subversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 08:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12008802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: Peter wanted to pull Stiles in close, scent him, and run his hands over every inch of him to make sure he was whole and okay. “I wanted to know why you have been avoiding everyone. Word is, that you haven't even been talking to Scott much over the last few weeks.”Brushing him off, Stiles headed for the kitchen to put away his purchases. “You're nosey. I'm fine, so you can go back home.” His heart stuttered over the words'I’m fine.’





	These Currents

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags and please make sure you are comfortable with the subject matter before continuing to read. 
> 
> Please read the notes concerning the circumstance of the abortion at the end of the fic prior to reading, if you need further information.

 

Stiles didn't come home for winter break, not even a quick overnight trip for Christmas Eve with his father. The kicker for Peter was the fact that Stiles hadn't begged off because he had plans with the Super Serious Boyfriend. That would have explained Stiles’ absence from the McCall/Hale pack holiday get together, maybe even been reason enough for Stiles to skip out on coming back to see his dad. Instead, Stiles had evaded invites at first, then seemingly went almost completely dark the closer it got to Christmas.

Peter was curious. 

That led him to Chicago, on a grey Saturday afternoon. The taxi drove him past dirty hills of snow banked up on the sides of the street, past tall buildings that reflected back diml, filtered sunlight. Nothing about the place looked appealing. He was there for answers though. 

Stiles wasn't home when Peter made it to the run-down apartment building, but it took depressingly very little to spring the locks on the door. After draping his damp coat across the back of a kitchen chair when no coat rack was found, Peter started his search. 

Overwhelmingly, the apartment smelled like Stiles, of course. Peter noted old, faint traces of Andrew, the Super Serious Boyfriend, but the scent was barely present in Stiles’ bedroom.  _ Interesting _ . Chemosignals caught Peter's attention when he moved closer to the bed. Pain, grief, and anxiety writ large across Peter's sense of smell. When he flipped the sheets back, though there was no visual evidence of it, he could make out the smell of blood and tears.

In the bathroom, recently filled prescription pain medication stood out like a neon sign. An idea, already half formed, took hold of Peter's mind as he looked at the date on the bottles. He had to be careful not to crack the plastic open with the force of his grip as anger bubbled up inside. He tore through the living room, looking for anything with a hint of where Andrew might live. It was somewhere close by, if Peter remembered correctly from all the times Stiles had mentioned their stupid little meet-cute at the local convenience store.

He was going to find Andrew and kill him for laying a hand on Stiles. He’d do it slowly. 

Movement and the sound of bags rustling made Peter pause, release some of the tension of decision that had curled in his muscles. He dropped the mail he had been sorting through. He leaned against the wall opposite the apartment door, affecting an air of nonchalance.  Stiles came inside, frowning and holding several reusable grocery bags on one arm. He brandished a large pocket knife in the other hand. His dark amber eyes zeroed in on Peter before he had the door all the way open. Peter smiled at that.

He sighed, using his thigh to close the knife before sliding it back into a pocket. “What the fuck, Peter. Ever heard of a god-damned phone?” Stiles carefully shifted to redistribute his bags, kicking the door closed. “You're paying for that, by the way.” He nodded back towards the door and its splintered sill.

“I think I can afford it,” Peter rolled his eyes, pushing off the wall to walk over to Stiles. He wanted to pull the human in close, scent him, and run his hands over every inch of him to make sure he was whole and okay. “I wanted to know why you have been avoiding everyone. Word is, that you haven't even been talking to Scott much over the last few weeks.”

Brushing him off, Stiles headed for the kitchen to put away his purchases. “You're nosey. I'm fine, so you can go back home.” His heart stuttered over the words  _ 'I’m fine.’ _

To look at him,Stiles seemed completely normal, if tired going by the dark rings under his eyes. There were no obvious casts or slings to help mend sprains or breaks. He was dressed in layers, more so now that he lived in a decidedly colder area. Peter saw no bandages, scraped knuckles, or bruises. Whatever had happened, must have happened several weeks ago—right around the time Stiles started getting sketchy with his contact. 

Peter came up behind Stiles while the opportunity presented itself. He needed, absolutely, to be closer. Something wasn't right. He tipped his face close to the back of Stiles’ neck, breathing deeply. When he wasn't immediately pushed away, Peter closed his eyes in relief.

Stiles smelled like himself, and no one else. Peter could smell dried blood and crusted, dead skin over the earthy scent of slowly knitting new flesh. Stiles hunched his shoulders after only a handful of seconds, more of a physical indicator of discomfort than a defense. Reluctantly, Peter turned to lean against the counter, facing Stiles. The anxiety rolling off Stiles collected at the back of Peter's tongue. It was bitter.

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbled, eyes flicking over at him when he put away a few cans of vegetables. His tone was surprisingly soft, implying an acknowledgement of Peter's protectiveness. It soothed Peter a little. 

He noticed the gingerly way Stiles moved, though, going up on his tip toes instead of just stretching with his back and arm. Peter narrowed his eyes but decided not to mention it just yet. He may have felt a little less territorial now that his pack mate had allowed a minimum of scenting, but Peter was still Peter—still hot-headed when it came to subjects he was passionate about.

“What for? For coming all the way to this snow caked shit hole to find out what our wayward human is up to? For reminding you that,  _ no _ , you can't just pull a disappearing act on your pack? Maybe it's for breaking your door so now you  _ have _ to get a decent one,” he chided.

Stiles let the cabinet door slam shut, and faced Peter. “God, you're a real fucking bitch sometimes.” He scowled.

Peter's eyes bled red, and he warned, “ _ careful _ , sweetheart.” A tight smile stretched over his lips, irritation at the situation and Stiles’ knee-jerk need to retort rubbing Peter's instincts the wrong way.

“Excuse me,  _ your Alphaness _ .” Stiles rolled his eyes, expression dark, eyes bright with fight. “I didn't know I was supposed to thank you for showing up without warning, breaking into my apartment, and destroying the door along the way.”

The buck to his authority made Peter's hackles rise, neck going warm and tingly even though he had no fur in his human form. He moved closer so the two of them were barely six inches apart. He watched, pleased and equally frustrated with the way Stiles straightened up and jutted out his chin. 

The air was charged between them as they stared at each other. Stiles was spoiling for a fight, defensive from the moment he arrived to find Peter in his living room, unannounced. Instinct and ego begged for Peter to pin Stiles down and force him to submit and apologize. However, Peter knew from years of experience with Stiles that he wouldn’t get anything other than a fist to the eye and no information for his trouble. Stiles needed to be handled differently, especially if he was hurt.

Peter telegraphed his movement, raising his arm up slowly until he could place his palm on the side of Stiles’ throat. He didn't want to startle or accidentally threaten him. He could hear the rapid heartbeat. Feeling it thrum under his skin, warm and vital, assured Peter’s more base needs. He waited until Stiles relaxed a fraction, jaw tightening then unclenching. He pushed his thumb into the soft underside of Stiles’ chin, pleased when Stiles didn’t resist letting him.

“What happened?” He scanned Stiles’ face, watching the nervous flick of Stiles’ tongue over his lips. Peter followed the bob of Stiles’ Adam’s apple when he swallowed.

A hand wrapped around Peter’s wrist. “I’ll be fine.” Stiles wasn’t lying this time. He stared into Peter’s eyes.  Adrenaline tinted his scent.

_ Tsk _ -ing, Peter asked again, “What happened, Stiles?” He smoothed his fingers over the side of Stiles’ neck, drifting down the slope. He made sure his voice was quiet, soft, and imploring. “Please.”

Predictably, Stiles stepped back. He hid by busying himself with the rest of his groceries. He didn’t speak until he was on the other side of the small room, putting away a half gallon of milk and some cheese.

“I got pregnant.” The set of his shoulders was tense, back to Peter. “I took care of it.” His words were clipped.

Several thoughts raced through Peter’s mind then. The strongest of which was the frustrating helplessness of knowing his pack mate had gone through this ordeal without any support from his family and pack. Adding up the revealed bit of information with the absence of Andrew, plus the fact that Stiles had been hiding everything from the pack and his father, led Peter to an uneasy feeling. 

He didn’t like the idea of Stiles being anything other than sure of himself and decisions.

Stiles must have taken the prolonged silence as a judgement, because he crossed his arms when he turned back to Peter. “What.” He sounded a lot like Derek used to just then, angry and defensive.

Peter couldn’t stop the hurt that was setting up at the knowledge that Stiles hadn’t trusted him enough to say anything sooner, voluntarily. Voicing his feelings wouldn’t help right now though. Stiles already had enough on his plate without being asked to apologize or defend his secrets. Pushing past the initial sting, Peter closed the distance.

He had to cross his own arms in order to keep from reaching out again. He could smell the wariness coming off Stiles. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles dropped his arms, giving Peter an outrageous look. “With all of your dramatics, all you have to say is  _ ‘okay _ ?’” He sounded almost brittle for a moment. A humorless laugh escaped him.

Stiles looked so much younger, more like the sixteen year-old Peter had first met, than the twenty-one year-old man he was. Peter pulled him forward into a hug, no longer able to resist when Stiles’ body was broadcasting such vulnerability. Tucking his face against Stiles’ neck and breathing deeply, he said, “Yes.”

Stiles slowly relaxed in Peter’s hold before raising his hands up to fold over Peter’s back. All at once, Stiles squeezed his arms desperately tight. He shuddered. Peter closed his eyes and gripped the back of Stiles’ neck reassuringly. 

After some time, Stiles moved back. His eyes were red rimmed though no tears had fallen. “I really am fine.”

Cupping Stiles’ cheek, Peter nodded. “I know you’re healing well.” 

He pursed his lips, refraining from asking to see the incision. He smiled when Stiles grimaced at the reference to Peter’s heightened sense of smell. It was something Stiles always complained about. The normalcy of it was settling.

“Come on,” Stiles sighed, resigned suddenly. They left the kitchen, and sat down on the overstuffed couch in the living room after he peeled off some of his layers.

“You should have told me you were coming out here.” He started off with chastisement, raising an eyebrow at Peter. “I didn’t tell anyone for a reason, and it is pretty fucking shitty of you to show up and demand I tell you what’s been going on.” Shaking his head when Peter opened his mouth to counter, he continued, “I don’t care if we’re pack and you’re an alpha. I’m an adult and I’m going to keep some things to myself, especially when they don’t concern any of you.”

“Wrong,” That had felt like a slap to the face. Peter brought a knee up on the couch so he could turn to face Stiles better. “It concerns us when you’re going through something as heavy as pregnancy and termination. No matter your decision, you needed support. You still do. Considering that boyfriend of yours is nowhere to be seen and you haven’t spoken of him in almost six weeks, I take it he hasn’t been there for you.” His voice got louder, the angrier he got over the situation Stiles had found himself in. 

Stiles dropped his head onto the back of the couch, clearly resigned. Peter watched the hand come up to press against Stiles’ lower abdomen, an unconscious gesture likely meant to ease whatever discomfort he must have felt. Peter crossed his arms again. 

“Andrew didn’t want to keep it either. But he wanted me to put it up for adoption.” Stiles shrugged carefully, avoiding eye contact with Peter. “We broke up.”

A mean sense of satisfaction shot through Peter at the last three words. He hadn’t liked Andrew at all. 

“Who took you for the procedure?” Peter asked. He was pretty sure he already knew who  _ hadn’t _ been the one to go with Stiles. He briefly imagined hunting Andrew down and maiming him a little.

Stiles chewed on his lip for a second before answering, “a friend from school. She stayed with me the first night home. It was an outpatient kind of thing; I didn’t need much help.” He wrapped his arms around himself, an unconscious protective gesture.

“One of us should have been here!” Peter couldn’t stop himself from snapping. He placed his hand on Stiles’ knee.

Stiles’ glare was sharp, reprimanding. “It would have been harder for me, okay? I just want to forget about it, not talk about it. I don’t want anyone looking at me with pity or worry. And I really would like to avoid any judgemental looks from people I love. So fuck you for thinking I needed to all but ask permission to do what was best for me.”

Groaning, Peter shook his head, squeezing Stiles’ knee briefly. He needed to make sure Stiles understood him. “Of course you didn’t have to ask permission. That’s not what I said.” He leaned closer, catching Stiles’ eye. “I only meant that I didn’t want you to feel like you were alone in this. You  _ aren’t alone _ .”

Stiles kept glaring at him, but it lost its heat the longer they stared at each other. Finally, Stiles nodded once. “Fine. Thank you.” It came out a bit begrudging, but Peter was thankful for it. 

Lifting his arm up in invitation, Peter held his breath until Stiles leaned into him. They moved and shifted until Peter was lying back length-ways on the couch with Stiles tucked up along his side. Peter closed his eyes and nuzzled the top of Stiles’ head, indulging in the close contact after nearly six months of separation. All over again, like every time, Peter bit his tongue to keep from begging Stiles to come back home with him. 

The apartment was quiet. Peter listened to Stiles’ steady heartbeat, breathed in the warm scent of him. Their scents were already starting to merge, and Peter wanted to hoard that smell like it was treasure to be admired later when they separated. Stiles was on the verge of falling asleep when he suddenly tugged at one of Peter’s hands.

He pulled it between their bellies, shifting back just enough to expose part of his stomach. Peter watched Stiles slide their hands under the waist of his loose khakis. Stiles’ skin was so warm there, soft and lightly haired except for a small patch of prickly hairs that were growing back. The moment one of Peter’s fingers touched the scab, he let out a noise from the back of his throat.

Peter hadn’t dared to ask to see or touch the incision site though he had desperately wanted to the moment he knew what caused the smell of blood and pain. Very carefully, wary of the delicate state of the scab, Peter rubbed his thumb around the healing wound. He pulled grey lines of pain from Stiles for several long moments. He listened to Stiles’ breath slow once more, sleep creeping in again. 

“See?” Stiles mumbled, almost drunkenly. He curled closer to Peter’s chest. 

_ I’m fine _ , Stiles forgot to say, already asleep when Peter pulled his hand free and wrapped his arms around Stiles’ back.

Peter didn’t speak, just held Stiles as close as possible for as long as he was allowed. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Abortion: Stiles had an abortion. His reasons are not explicitly stated in the fic, whether it was medically necessary or not. It is heavily implied that Stiles chose to have the abortion because he doesn't want a child yet. The procedure is not described, and happened several weeks prior to the setting of this fic.
> 
> Stiles and the other father: His ex-boyfriend, the other father, was informed of the pregnancy and subsequent decision to terminate; he disagreed with Stiles' decision. Legally, in this universe, Stiles had the last say in what happened with the pregnancy.
> 
> Check me out on [tumblr](http://the-redcrate.tumblr.com).


End file.
